I never know what to say when it matters.
This part has never been my thing. Feeling, comforting, trying to fix something that doesn’t have an easy angle or a clean solution. It’s easier to joke and deflect, pretend none of it’s real. But none of that works here. Not with her.
Ava narrows her eyes, studying me like she’s trying to piece something together. “I heard you guys yelling.”
“Yeah,” I admit, scrubbing a hand down my face as I push off from the door.
“About me?” she asks, voice small.
I jerk a nod. No point in lying, she probably heard every fucking word.
She watches me for a long moment, tilting her head like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to find. And for the first time since she got back, she’s actually looking at me. Not through me.
I swallow roughly. “Just because I stand by the guys,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “doesn’t mean I agree with everything they do.”
Her eyes go glassy and she drops her gaze, her hair slipping forward to hide her face like she doesn’t want me to see it.
I shift my weight, something straining in my chest.
I want to go to her. Sit on the edge of the bed, and do something– anything– that makes this feel less like I’m standing on the wrong side of a line I don’t know how to cross.
But she came in here to get away from us.Allof us. So I don’t move. Instead, I just sigh, slowly turning toward the door and reaching for the knob.
“Hey Wes?”
Her voice stops me cold. I freeze, fingers tensing slightly on the doorknob before I twist around.
She’s looking at me again, the anger in her brown eyes dissolving into something softer. Something I can’t quite place.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod once, forcing a swallow past the lump in my throat. Then I turn, pulling the door open, and step out in the hallway, closing it quietly behind me.
CHAPTER 18
RAF
The boathouse is packed sotight you can’t even see the fucking floor. Half the school turned out for the Cherry Pop Party– even with final exams breathing down their necks, nobody’s willing to miss out on the biggest spectacle of the year. There’s a mean pulse to the place, every surface washed in red LED light, the air saturated with the sugar-tang of cherry liquor and cheap champagne. It’s a full-blown fuckfest in the making, and from my spot on the couch in the loft, I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Ford is in his element. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this dialed in– he’s worked the crowd all night like he’s channeling Wes, bouncing between beer pong, the vodka luge, and the DJ booth in back without missing a beat. The playlist is pure pop trash, but it gets people grinding so hard the entire main floor vibrates underneath them. Nobody here gives a shit about taste. They care about being seen, being wanted, being talked about tomorrow like they mattered for one night before everything resets.
And then there’s Ava.
She’s the only thing in the room brighter than the lights. It’s not just the stupid shirt Ford made her wear– a tight whitecropped tank with glittery cherries positioned right over her nipples– or the short red plaid skirt she paired with it. Or even the white knee socks, which make her legs look twice as long. It’sher. The way her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, the blood-red lipstick, the flush in her cheeks from dancing. The way she moves like she belongs in the center of it all.
Like she owns the room.
People track her without even realizing they’re doing it, heads turning, conversations stalling. She’s the main event, whether she asked for it or not, and she’s taken to it like a fish to water.
She should still be pissed at us for the flyer. For turning her into a walking billboard and making her first time a goddamn public event. Instead, she’s smiling like she’s in on the joke, like she’s the host and everyone here came at her own personal request. I’m not sure if she’s turned over a new leaf or if she’s just playing us, but if it’s an act, it’s fucking Oscar-worthy.
I lean back, taking in the scene with a tumbler of bourbon in hand. This is all supposed to be strategy; our genius plan to nuke the Dollhouse auction and leave no question that Ava’s ours. In all the scenarios I ran in my head, I never pictured it being…fun. Not just for everyone else, but for me. Things have been so fucking dark lately, but tonight, it almost feels like none of the other shit matters. The weight that’s been sitting on my chest has eased, the noise in my head has quieted, the shadows are nowhere to be found. All that’s left is the music and the sweat and the promise of how this night ends.
On the dance floor, Ava’s got both my boys wrapped around her– Wes behind, Ford in front, their hands finding easy excuses to brush over her arms, her hips, the bare stretch of her midriff. They’re all over her, but she’s not pulling away or playing shy. She’s winding her body between them like she’s conducting thewhole thing, head thrown back in a laugh that makes Wes’ eyes go soft and Ford answer with one of his own.
The sight of it hits me harder than expected.
It shouldn’t. If anything, this was always the expectation. The three of us, one girl, everyone else knowing she’s untouchable except by us. But lately, there’s been a weird shift. The old rivalry keeps creeping back in, flaring up every time Ava’s in the room. Wes trying to act like he’s the steady, sensitive boyfriend, Ford clowning his way into her pants, and me, apparently, the moody bastard who spends more time watching than participating.
